A Long Time Coming
by Maj and Star
Summary: Time passes, but old hatred remains strong. A misunderstanding from the past is about to claim Aragorn s life. But it is not his battle alone because Legolas is involved as well... No slash, just friendship. Rated T for angst.
1. The Ring With the Emerald Stone

**Disclaimer**: we do not own any characters, places or storylines you recognize, it belongs to Prof. Tolkien, Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema and other lucky bastards.

**Authors´ notes**:

Happy New Year and the best of luck to all of you! This was originally supposed to be posted on Christmas, but wine, champagne, beer, the Netherlands and sherry intervened. Hopefully this will nevertheless be a nice present, if a little belated.

This is our first collaboration and it´s been great fun so far. Writing together is a new experience, and we think you can tell when reading, since the style is slightly different from both our usual works; we find it rewarding though and recommend our fellow authors to try it.

Furthermore, we dedicate this piece to Mirach, since she suggested that we should write a story together. Thank you (and we had the wine for you)!

PS: Maj would like to say that this is the first story she has written in a long time, and that "The Hunt for Gollum- Aftermath" is not forgotten. Star would like to add here that whereas she _has_ at least updated "The Only Way to Kill the Dragon" in the last couple of months, she nevertheless feels bad about it, too! We do mean to continue them, it´s just a matter of time (as well as wine, champagne, beer, the Netherlands and sherry).

* * *

**A Long Time Coming**

Summary:

Time passes, but old hatred remains strong. A misunderstanding from the past is about to claim Aragorn´s life. But it is not his battle alone because Legolas is involved as well...

~o~

Part 1: The Ring With the Emerald Stone

A dark and earthy aroma greeted him. It was a familiar smell, yet he could not name it. It did not exactly remind him of home, nor did it make him feel comfortable. Moisture seemed to cling to it as well as to his body, bringing another, rather unwelcome sensation with it: he was chilled to the bone. Coldness had spread through his every limb, increasing an underlying ache which he only now noticed. He could not locate it, for it seemed to have neither a beginning, nor an end: it was just there, steadily as his heartbeat and increasingly strong.

He heard a strange noise which caused him to look around; he groaned from the effort and pain of trying to locate the source, and with a jolt of shock realized that the first noise had come from himself as he had tried to move. Nausea assaulted him, and he tried to breathe it away only to discover that a heavy pressure was constricting his chest, preventing him from inhaling deeply. Unwanted panic rose within him; he could not recall what had happened, and the all-encompassing ache was beginning to turn into real pain now. Trying to ignore the nausea and panic, he made another attempt on moving, but it was impossible. Something was holding him in place, and even if he had been coherent enough to realize what it was, he could not have moved it aside.

The feeling of being trapped added to a desperate sense of helplessness, which caused a shiver to run down his spine: he did not know what had befallen him, and apparently he could not free himself. He closed his eyes, too exhausted to find a solution.

-

The flames of the campfire were dancing merrily, illuminating the faces of the figures assembled around it and warming their frozen bodies. It was a group of four which had assembled here, in the depth of the woods.

The oldest man among them was nearing his fourtieth birthday; he had flaming red hair and a weather-beaten face full of freckles. Next to him sat a boy of probably twelve winters; he was resembling his father greatly, his hair and features nearly exact copies of the older man.

He kept looking at the hooded figure which was sitting across the fire: the hood was concealing most of the face, and only a few wisps of fair hair were visible whenever the stranger moved. Most of the time he sat still, however, and talked only a little.

His companion on the other hand was engaged in a lively conversation with the boy´s father. His voice was soft, yet he had a manner of speaking which caused people to listen attentively. Occasionally he took a pull at his long-stemmed pipe, the sweet smelling smoke mingling with the scent of the fire.

In the shade of his hood, Legolas smiled despite the smoke. He could not understand why Aragorn had taken Gandalf´s lead concerning the strange habit, and he probably would never get used to the smell; it was more pronounced and acid than the normal smoke of a fire, and it kept irritating him greatly. Yet his friend seemed more relaxed than he had been in weeks, and it pleased him to see that the lines of worry on Aragorn´s face had disappeared for once. He had finally decided to leave the Rangers and to pledge his service to King Thengel of Rohan. It had not been an easy choice, and it had been born out of a deep restlessness, which had been initiated by the increasing burden of Aragorn´s heritage. Ever since his foster father, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, had revealed his true identity to the young Dúnadan, the weight of responsibility had Aragorn seriously questioning every step he took.

Legolas was accompanying his friend on his way to Minas Tirith, where Aragorn was supposed to meet Gandalf before heading to Rohan; the elf was aware that he was probably not going to see much of the Dúnadan during his service, therefore he was using the opportunity to spend more time with his friend.

While the prince was lost in his thoughts, he watched how the flicker of the fire was reflected by the small emerald stone in Aragorn´s ring; he had been astonished to see his friend wearing the ring on this particular journey, since it plainly identified him as the heir of Isildur and most likely would not be very welcome by the Gondorian steward. Aragorn however seemed to draw comfort or even strength out of the small token, as though it was affirming his decision, and seemed intent on wearing it until their arrival in Minas Tirith.

The boy was watching the ring as well; he looked tired, and his lids were beginning to droop.

Legolas was pulled out of his musings when a low sound caught his attention. He listened hard, no longer paying heed to the conversation or the crackling of the fire; slowly, as though unawares of his own action, he stood. He sensed it more than he could hear it: something was there, a presence which made itself known now that the elf was alert. The almost inaudible sound of breathing, and the feeling of being watched made the fine hairs on his neck stand on end.

Aragorn had interrupted himself when he had seen Legolas rise in a tense, long drawn-out motion, and was straining his ears as well now, all the while watching the elf attentively. The man and his son were looking from the Ranger to the other in confusion.

Aragorn now rose as well, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Legolas´ ears were more reliable than anyone else´s, but apart from that, he had felt it too. They were no longer alone.

Legolas and he exchanged a long look before the elf spoke softly: "Wolves. The wind carries their scent."

Aragorn turned to the red-haired man: "Stay near the fire. Light a branch."

The man did not hesitate, though he looked puzzled. He drew his son to his feet and pulled him close.

While the two were struggling with their improvised torches, Legolas had notched an arrow and Aragorn had pulled his sword. Not a minute too early so, as the assault came a moment later.

-

The boy could feel his heart beating rapidly; it seemed to have slipped up into his throat. His fingers were trembling as he held the burning branch. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he was simply having a nightmare, but when he opened them again, he could see the dark-haired man brandishing his sword and the hooded stranger abandoning his bow and wielding two long, elegantly carved knives instead. Dark, heavily blurred shapes seemed to whirl around them, matching the confusion in the boy´s mind. He dropped his branch, it was of no use anyway. He could hear his father shout something and did not realize that he meant him until he used the boy´s name: "Fingaer!_ Fingaer_!"

The name did not help to shake off the boy´s panic induced stupor, but it caused him to turn around. His father was looking at him, thus he did not see the attack coming. Fingaer stared as a wolf threw his father off his feet, helplessly staring as the man screamed.

Later, he could not recall what happened next; at one point, he realized that something had changed, and that he was kneeling next to his father, crying for help. He looked over to the dark-haired man, who was kneeling on the ground a few feet away. While Fingaer was clinging to his father´s bloodied body and the laboured breathing of the mangled and dying man was painfully filling his ears, he saw that the stranger´s hood had slipped back. He was lying on the ground next to the other, but Fingaer did not see the blood that was pouring out of a deep wound in his side; all he realized was that the stranger was an elf and that the man with the sparkling ring was helping him rather than his father.

-

Aragorn tiredly ran his hand over his eyes. Dawn had begun to break, and he had finally had managed to staunch the bloodflow from Legolas´ wound. He had not been able to save Fingaer´s father however; the regret weighed heavily on his heart, yet the wound the wolf had inflicted had been too grave and beyond his healing skills. The boy was sitting next to the fire now, his eyes never leaving his father´s body, which they had covered with the man´s blanket. Aragorn wanted to apologize for not being able to help, for the shock and pain which were evident in the boy´s features, but he did not find his voice. He was too shaken himself, and Legolas was not out of danger yet.

The man stoked the fire once more; Fingaer turned his face towards him, as though waking up. He gazed at the stick Aragorn was holding, wide-eyed and evidently still shocked, but the simple act of routine seemed to unmercifully tell him that life was indeed going on. He was still there, freezing in the cold air of the early morning, and his father was lying dead on the ground.

As he felt that the man was beholding him, he looked up; he saw sympathy and sadness on the other´s face, and felt his face grow hot: it was this man´s fault that his father was dead, because he had chosen to help the elf first, was it not? The stranger had no reason to look at him as he did now, he should rather have felt ashamed of himself, if anything.

His and Aragorn´s gazes met, and there was so much contempt and hatred in the boy´s eyes all of a sudden that it startled the man. Fingaer´s stare seemed to burn a hole into his heart, right next to the spot which was raw and hurting from the night´s events.

As he crouched down next to the elf and gently reached out to feel his forehead in order to check his temperature, he found that his hand was trembling. Tiredness, he told himself, and worry for the elf, nothing more. Yet he could not forget the absolute loathing in Fingaer´s eyes.

-

The light of the morning sun caught in the emerald stone as Aragorn regarded his ring. He had not seen it in fifteen years, ever since he had begun his service in the armies of Rohan and, later, Gondor.

Fifteen years during which the ring had lain hidden, carefully wrapped in a piece of cloth, so as not to reveal the Captain Thorongil´s actual identity. Yet now the day of his taking leave had come, and it was time to remember who he truly was. Slowly, reverently, he slipped the silver band on the index finger of his left hand, marveling at how familiar it felt after such a long absence.

The victory over the pirates had been his last achievement as Thorongil; he was about to leave Umbar, and he did not plan to go back to Minas Tirith. The city was weighing down on him, as he seemed to dwell on other matters than his destined path, and he felt that he had to get away. For the first time since he had been a child, he had often woken up in the middle of the night lately, drenched in cold sweat and feeling a kind of longing which seemed to tug at his heart. It was like being homesick, and it made him restless. Maybe it was time to go back to his past before facing the future once again.

-

Fingaer did not believe in coincidences. Things happened and set other things in motion, there was nothing more to it. He had no patience for other explanations than the obvious, and he had fared quite well with that so far. As a Ranger, he could not afford to rely on uncertain factors, he needed to be able to find his way no matter what; thus, he used his senses and his knowledge to distinguish between danger and safety, and to do his service under the steward. The men of Ithilien were daily dealing with the cold, hard facts of their lives, such as the wild beasts that were living in the forests, and how easily one could fall prey to them. There were other, more uncanny beings out there as well, therefore daydreamers had no place in the ranks of the Rangers.

He was all the more baffled by the encounter he had in the Two Crowns, the local inn he frequently visited. It was on the Old Road through the Emyn Arnen and therefore a useful source of information. A Ranger only had to buy himself a pint of ale and listen carefully to the people around him.

He had become a Ranger mainly to master his fear, the horror that had been creeping up his spine whenever he had so much as thought of the forests which were so characteristical for the county he was living in. Yet he always felt better when he was sleeping inside, a trait which had had him become friends with the innkeeper, Rumo.

It was on such day while he was nursing his brew that he was unexpectedly roused out of his state of relaxed observance; a stranger had entered the taproom in order to talk to Rumo. Fingaer could not understand what he said, for his voice was soft and low, but the Ranger´s eyes fell on the ring the man was wearing: a dark green stone was reflecting the light of the candles, and the sight of it suddenly had Fingaer recalling a very similar picture: a jewel glimmering in the glow of the fire, its deep green rich and luminescent.

Fingaer froze, his fingers slowly closing around the handle of his jug until his knuckles went white. He would have recognized that ring anywhere.

-

Aragorn followed the innkeeper up to the room he had rented. It was small and dingy, but he had seen worse, and at least it was dry and even had its own fireplace. For the past few days it had been raining ceaselessly, and on that very morning his horse, Draumur, had slipped on a muddy spot and had twisted its hock. Aragorn had seen to it and was confident that he would merely need rest and proper treatment, yet it meant that they would have to stay in Ithilien until the injury had mended. For the moment, he was quite glad to be out of the torrential rain, thus he did not really mind the delay.

With tired movements, he pulled off his boots, then he unfastened the clasp on his cloak and draped it over the one chair which he placed in front of the small fire. Sighing, he sank onto the bed, suddenly longing to just lie down and sleep for a while, but it was still early, and he wanted to visit Draumur once more before retiring for the night.

He slowly undid the laces on his tunic and took it off; he examined it for a moment, aware of the many tears and stains which had gathered on the dark green leather. He would take to mending it during the time he would be forced to wait. He threw it over the chair, then likewise opened the laces of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. For a moment, he imagined how it would feel to sink into a hot bath, to have the warm water wash over him and relax his taut muscles; instead, he quickly pulled off his equally wet socks, trousers and underpants and slipped underneath the blankets to get warm. Huddled into a ball, he closed his eyes, feeling a profound sense of relief welling up in him. He had meant only to rest for a minute, but exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he soon was fast asleep.

-

In the dark alleyway which led to the inn´s stables, Fingaer stood waiting. He pressed himself against the wall so as not to get wet; he would probably not have noticed the rain and the cold anyway, so great was his wrath. No one who knew the young Ithilien Ranger would have recognized him at first glance now; his eyes were shining as though glazed with fever, and his face was contorted with fury. He wanted to maim, now that he finally had found the man he was holding responsible for his father´s untimely death. It must have been fate which had helped him, which had sent the stranger to the Two Crowns of all places. Ever since the fateful night had he been determined to avenge the deed, and it had haunted him that he had no knowledge of the other´s whereabouts.

He had heard Rumo saying that the man had mentioned looking in on his horse later, thus he had gone outside, unthinkingly, all the while clutching his dagger. He wanted the stranger to die an equally slow and painful death as his father had, wanted him to suffer and writhe in agony.

He did not know how much time had passed, but the man he was waiting for did not turn up. A couple of drunken travellers passed by, too busy to support each other to notice the young man who was pressing himself further into the shadows, but no one else. Fingaer´s fingers began to grow numb, and he reluctantly put the dagger back into his sheath. Maybe this was another sign, a sign that he should wait; if he killed the man here, someone might find out it had been him. He would have to leave quickly, but Rumo had seen and talked to him, so he would know something was odd. He probably would not tell anybody, yet Fingaer did not trust him to not accidently spill the beans.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled his cloak tighter around himself; this was not the time and place. He had waited for so long now, he could wait a little longer.

-

For a moment, Aragorn did not know where he was as he opened his eyes, or what time it was for that matter. Things began to come back to him slowly: the rain, his horse slipping, the inn. He had fallen asleep. He was still tired, and snuggled deeper into the nest of blankets; it was not yet light outside, and he could hear the rain pouring onto the roof.

He hoped that Draumur was fine, as he wished to proceed his journey as quickly as possible; he had agreed to meet his friend Legolas on the Great West Road soon. He smiled as he thought of the elf; they had not seen each other for a long time, and he was looking forward to being in his company.

Aragorn crawled out of the covers and stretched, trying to chase the last traces of sleep out of his mind. His muscles were still stiff from the long hours of travelling in the cold and rain, but the brief rest had done him some good. The Ranger swiftly put on his trousers and walked to the hearth to rekindle the fire, which had died out some time during the night. His shirt and tunic had managed to dry, but his cloak and trousers were still slightly damp. Aragorn felt the inside of his leather boots and sighed tiredly – they were moist as well, but he had no spare ones, so they had to do. Besides, he did not plan to travel today anyway since Draumur would need longer to heal.

The thought of his horse made him hurry, and only a minute later he was fully dressed and ready to go to the stables. Perhaps by the time he returned, the sun would have already risen and he could stop in the taproom for a warm breakfast since his meals had been meager of late and his stomach was beginning to voice its protests. He also made a mental note to himself to ask Rumo for a small water basin; he might have been denied a warm bath, but he was determined to wash the dirt and grime clinging to his body as thoroughly as possible, and he would not be able to get a better accomodation for a while after he left the inn.

Draumur was contentedly chewing on a bit of hay; the Rangers of Ithilien had seen to it that horses were well cared for in the inn. He turned his head towards his master as Aragorn quietly stepped up to him, his ears playing expectantly. Aragorn smiled as the dapple grey nosed his tunic for a greeting, and scratched him behind his ears before bending down to examine the leg. Draumur did not flinch as he touched it, a vast improvement to the day before, and the sore spot did not feel warm anymore. He seemed to be healing better than the Ranger would have dared to hope.

The rain had not abated a bit; with a weary glance towards the sky, Aragorn went back inside the inn with long strides. The taproom was nearly empty, only one lonely figure was sitting in a corner, huddled in a worn cloak, and two old men were playing a game of cards in front of the fireplace. The innkeeper was polishing some glasses with an old rag; it was questionable whether the glasses would be much cleaner afterwards. He interrupted his work as Aragorn sat down at the bar: "And what can I do for you, sir?"

"I would appreciate some breakfast," Aragorn replied, "preferably warm, if that is possible."

Ten minutes later, he was being served a bowl of porridge, some bread and a steaming mug of coffee. Rumo joined him after a while: "´S been pouring all week," he observed, sipping on a mug of coffee of his own. "The roads are a mess, after what people told me."

"Aye," Aragorn answered monosyllabically.

The innkeeper eyed him over the rim of his mug: "You headed northwest, by any chance? I need a letter delivered, and the bloody messengers refuse to travel in the rain."

Aragorn gave him what he hoped to be a stern look; he knew that the man had watched him upon his arrival, having been staring out of the small window next to the bar, whether for entertainment or out of sheer boredom he did not know, but he had not liked it.

"So you have noticed that I have come from the South?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

Rumo scratched himself behind his ear: "Well, people say I´m perceptive."

Aragorn kept a perfectly straight face. "Where to?" he then asked.

It took the innkeeper a moment to comprehend: "To my brother, Wilmo. He owns an inn in Tilling. It´s beyond the Firien Wood."

"And the inn is called?"

"The Stone and Tree."

Aragorn nodded acquiescently: "Very well then. If my horse is recovered enough on the day after tomorrow, I shall leave and take the letter with me."

The innkeeper beamed at him: "Thank you, sir, that´s good news!"

Aragorn spent the rest of the day mostly in his room, mending his clothes and resting. He had no way of knowing that Fingaer, exhilirated by the information he had been able to gather, had left the inn in a hurry and was already on his way to the Great West Road, which was passing through the Firienholt, or, as Rumo had called it, the Firien Wood.

The Firien Wood was also the place where Aragorn and Legolas had agreed to meet; the Elven prince had suggested this spot on the border between Rohan and Gondor. The Ranger knew that Legolas preferred a forest to any other location, especially when they could not arrange a specific date and one of them might have to wait for the other. Aragorn did not mind; he was used to being in the Wild and felt at home outside.

He was actually looking forward to some fishing in the Mering Stream, which flowed through the forest; since it was raining heavily, though, it was very likely that the river might be impassable, or that the area had even been flooded.

-

These apprehensions were confirmed three days later, when he arrived in the Firienholt in the evening. The river had not burst its banks, but it was flowing rapidly. The ground was so muddy that Aragorn had dismounted and was leading Draumur along on his reins; he could hear the river nearby and wondered where he would find a somewhat dry place for the night. He did not bother to look out for Legolas; the Elf would find him, it had always been like that.

Legolas, supremely unconcerned by the rain, was looking down at his human friend and could not subdue a grin at the sight how Aragorn was struggling through the almost knee-high mud. He would most likely be grumpy and complaining about it later, and Legolas´ heart rejoiced in the anticipation of a friendly banter; they had not seen each other for too long. Aragorn had left the road, which was a little higher up, following the river, to make his way down to the shore, probably to let his horse drink. It was a magnificient animal, Legolas noticed, dapple grey and with strong, long legs.

The Ranger led it to a spot which had been smoothed out by frequent use of lumbermen, thus the water was easily accessible; Legolas could see a pile of logs up next to the road, waiting to be rolled into the water and flooded down towards the next village.

He climbed over to another tree nearer to the shore, intending on surprising Aragorn, but not spooking the horse; the branches were slippery, and even a being as secure-footed as Legolas had to be utterly careful not to lose his footing. A strange sound made him halt in his movement, a low, rumbling noise which was clearly audible over the rain and the river. He looked up, turning towards its source; for a moment, nothing seemed out of order, then, as though slower than it should be, the logs started to move. One after the other, they began to roll down the slope, tumbling over roots and treetrunks, and getting faster and faster. Legolas could only watch- time seemed to have stopped, yet the first few logs had nearly reached the shore already. Where Aragorn was standing.

With a cry so desperate it was almost anguished, Legolas jumped off the tree: "Estel!"

Aragorn did not seem to hear him. He had turned around and discovered the danger he was in, but he was currently trying to duck away from his horse´s hooves. The poor animal was panicking and rising onto his hind legs, whinnying pitifully. Aragorn refused to let go of the reins, pulling the horse forward with all his might in order to get it to run away. The dapple grey seemed to lose his balance for a moment, then he fell onto his forelegs in a somewhat clumsy motion, so forcefully hitting Aragorn´s shoulder with his own that the Ranger lost his own balance and fell backwards and out of sight.

Legolas heard himself scream his friend´s name once more; just as the horse had finally fled, the first two logs had reached the shore and were tumbling into the water, bound to hit the man.

~o~

**To Be Continued**

~o~

Reviews are appreciated!


	2. The Longest Night

**Disclaimer**: we do not own any characters, places or storylines you recognize, it belongs to Prof. Tolkien, Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema and other lucky bastards.

**Author´s notes**: thanks to all who reviewed and/or put the story on alert or even on their favourites list, it´s highly appreciated! On to the new chapter: lots of h/c in this one!

* * *

**A Long Time Coming**

Summary:

Time passes, but old hatred remains strong. A misunderstanding from the past is about to claim Aragorn´s life. But it is not his battle alone because Legolas is involved as well...

~o~

Part 2: The Longest Night

The Elf made to rush down to the water when he registered a swishing sound nearby his head. He immediately threw himself onto the ground, barely avoiding a second arrow. He did not even notice the cold mud, but was scanning his surroundings. Someone was shooting at him, and his instinct told him that it was the same person who probably had loosened the logs. There was no mistaking it for coincidence.

When he scrutinized the area from which direction the arrows probably had come, he could make out some movement between the trees; a fraction of a pale face was visible for a few seconds.

Legolas did not hesitate; he jumped to his feet gracefully and headed back to the trees. With one fluid motion he pulled himself up onto the lower branches; while he quickly climbed higher, more arrows were whistling past him. As soon as he was standing securely between the foliage, he reached for his bow and notched an arrow. The fire had ceased momentarily, as Legolas had vanished out of sight, but the elf could still see someone, partially hidden behind a tree. Taking aim, Legolas wasted no time and let his arrow fly. His thoughts were with Aragorn, yet he had to take their attacker down first.

His arrow apparently had struck home, for he could hear a strangled cry, and then the man fell with a thud.

Legolas made his way up the slope; even though he did not sink into the mud and therefore made quick progress, yet it seemed too long. He wished to help his friend, but he had to make sure the attacker was not endangering them anymore.

He could see that the man was wearing the garb of the Ithilien Rangers; his hood had come off as he fell, and a shock of bright red hair was spilling out from underneath, a stark contrast to the dark mud. With a jolt of surprise, Legolas recognized the face. He had seen it before, but could not place it at first. He leaned over the fallen, aware that his arrow had instantly killed him when it had hit his heart; the face was young, younger than he remembered it. He frowned in confusion while he took the beardless features in, the eyes which were still open, widened in shock, and then, slowly, memories came back to him. A cold night on the road, a fire, two strangers asking whether they were welcome in their camp. And then, the wolves...

Legolas felt uncomfortable. He had nearly died that night, if it had not been for Aragorn. Aragorn... his heart twisted painfully. He cast one last look at the dead man, then turned to find his friend. Anything else would have to wait.

The riverbank was barely visible in the approaching darkness. If it had not been for Legolas´ exceptionally good eyes, he would have found it hard to make out where the muddy line of grass descended into the water.

One single log was still lying next to the river, the others had been washed away by the swiftly flowing waters. Legolas´ heart sank; of course Aragorn would have been carried away by the current as well. Even if he had drowned.

Legolas feared that his friend had been knocked unconscious by one of the logs, but even if he had not was it most likely that he would not have managed to swim against the current. The Elf felt a wave of almost physical pain at the thought that Aragorn might be beyond his reach. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists while angrily shoving those thoughts away: he must not despair, he told himself, his friend needed him to be strong. With fresh determination born out of anguish, Legolas began his search.

-

The world had been reduced to coldness and pain. Aragorn had unsuccessfully tried to move once more, but whatever it was that was trapping him did not budge. With an effort, he fought to free one hand; the pain which errupted in his shoulder at doing so nearly sent him back to unconsciousness, but after a while, he was able to feel around. Though his whole body was meanwhile throbbing with fierce steadiness, the main weight of what appeared to be a large piece of wood was lying across his chest and his right hip, effectively pinning him to the cold ground. A second, seemingly similar piece was lying across his legs, and a third was pressing against his left foot. Trying to move it into a more bearable position only brought him an even stronger wave of pain. Tears shot into his eyes unbiddenly at the cruel onslaught.

He blinked as he suddenly remembered the sensation of losing his balance and falling into the river, and then a profound bout of panic... something massive had kept him underwater, preventing him from breathing, from saving himself... he wondered what exactly had happened and where Draumur was now. It was still raining heavily, and he just hoped that the horse´s reins had not gotten caught somewhere, rendering it helpless.

A sudden wetness pulled him out of his thoughts. Water was engulfing his feet, he could feel the cold through his already sodden boots.

Only now did he realize where he was: lying on the riverbank, unable to move, and the river was most likely swelling from the rain. A shudder ran through his battered body: no one knew had befallen him, thus no one would come to his rescue. He was on his own; he had to free himself or he would soon be dead.

-

Legolas looked up at the sky, longing to see the stars; he was desperate for someone to console him, tell him everything would be fine. Yet there was no comfort to be had, for the heavens were cloudy and only told of more rain to come. An hour past midnight the rain had abated a little, only to come back with a vengeance.

The elf´s head was swimming: what if he did not find Aragorn? Who would bear the news to Elrond, who would tell him that his son had been killed in a cowardly ambush? Or, worse: what if he did find Aragorn, but it was too late?

The elf paused for a moment, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath, perhaps the hundredth within the six hours he had been searching already. He had been very thorough, following the river´s meandering bank and stopping ever so often to scan the dark waters. Sometimes he had thought he had seen a floating body, but it had proven to be pieces of wood every time, mostly branches which had fallen into the water during the storm.

He was even more desperate now; the chances of finding Aragorn were diminishing, and his time was running out. Human bodies were so very fragile, and he did not know what his friend had been put through during the past hours.

-

Aragorn had been struggling with the logs for an unaccounted amount of time. The water was rising steadily around him, and his limbs felt numb with cold once more. He could barely think because of the pain, therefore he had not realized that the rising water would probably lift the weight off him; all he could think of was that he had to get out of there, and that he had to keep breathing to will the pain away.

At one point, his body simply gave in to the exhaustion and strain, and suddenly could not move anymore. Unable to distract himself from his despair, Aragorn´s thoughts turned to those who would very likely never learn about his fate. He could see Elrond in front of his inner eye, standing on the balcony of his study and watching the gates of Imladris, ever waiting for his missing son to return.

The faces of Elladan and Elrohir appeared in his mind, looking troubled; he could see them, searching for their missing brother but never finding him. Or maybe one day finding his mangled remains, only recognizing him by the ring he was wearing.

Legolas would wait for him in this very forest, wondering why he did not appear. He would perhaps find Draumur, if the horse had survived; the Elf did not know the horse, but if he looked into the saddle bags, he might find Aragorn´s belongings, some of which he would certainly recognize. Thus he would know something had happened, but it might lead to a desperate and endless search.

And, last of all, Arwen Undómiel. During all his years abroad she had often visited his dreams, and he had longed to be near her, to hear her sweet voice and look into her unfathomable eyes. This would never come to pass now; with a pang of regret he wished to see her face one more time before the end, but this was not to be. He would die alone, far away from those that he loved.

Defeatedly, he gave up the already lost battle to free himself. His eyes closed as though on their own account, and he let himself be soaked up in the darkness which had been lurking for him ever since he had first found himself in the dire situation he was in.

-

Legolas ran one hand over his eyes to dry them. Tears of frustration and weariness had mingled with the rain. He halted and peered through the darkness over to the opposite shore; even if it might be futile, he was considering searching the other side of the river as well. He slowly moved on, contemplating how to cross the water; after a while of mute brooding, he reached another bend. His heart sped up as he saw a large, dark shape which apparently had been washed up there, but upon approaching it, he realized it only were a few of the logs. He passed by them; he had forsaken his hope of finding Aragorn alive, thus he did not consider the possibility of his friend also having ended up in the same place.

He was looking at the trees, wondering whether there were any whose branches were long enough to reach the other side, when he heard something, a sound which differentiated from the usual rushing noise of the water.

He halted once more, listening attentively. There it was again, a soft gargling, followed by a weak cough and a moan.

Legolas froze for a moment, a rush of adrenaline running through him. He cautiously moved in the direction from which the sounds had come, hardly daring to breathe: "Aragorn?"

He did not get a response, but now his eyes had locked onto the shapes of the logs, which were now moving a little. The water level had risen above the bank. Only when the elf reached the logs, stepping into the knee-high water without hesitation, did he see the pale face of his human friend, nearly submerged. It seemed that Aragorn had somehow been trapped underneath the logs, and was in the danger of drowning.

"Aragorn," Legolas´ voice nearly broke as he fell onto his knees next to the man, slender hands cradling the wet and cold face for a moment: "Hold on. I am here now. I will stay with you."

He then, reluctantly, got up again; with all his weight, he tried to push one of the logs aside, but it did not move. Aragorn however gave a small, pained and watery groan. Legolas ground his teeth; he did not wish to hurt his friend even further. He would have to wait until the logs would be floating a little more.

The Elf usually was very patient; he could persevere motionlessly in a tree for hours, waiting for a deer to show up or simply enjoying the solitude, yet now that his friend´s life was at stake every minute seemed to stretch endlessly. He wanted to get up and shout out his frustration, but he could not leave his friend´s side. He helplessly watched the water rising further; he tried to keep Aragorn´s face above the surface, but feared to bend his neck too far. The man was unresponsive, and Legolas could not even see whether his chest was still rising steadily.

Fear gripped him anew. If he did not prevent it, Aragorn very likely would breathe in instinctively, inhale water and drown. While he used one hand to support his friend´s head, he very cautiously put the other one over the man´s mouth, using his fingers to close his nostrils. He counted to ten, feeling his own heartbeat mingling with Aragorn´s, or maybe he only imagined it, then bent down to share his breath with the human. The water was so cold it tingled on his skin.

He had done so a few times when unexpectedly the log lying across Aragorn´s chest suddenly moved, slowly sliding sideways. With renewed energy, Legolas quickly moved as well; using his knee to support Aragorn now instead of his hand, he began to push at the piece of wood with all his might. For a few, agonizing moments, nothing happened, but then he felt how the log eventually began to give way.

The others followed a little easier, seeing as they were lying further down where the ground was lower. Legolas gasped as he had finally managed to free his friend. He pulled him up and out of the water, lifting him on his arms as soon as he had gotten a firm hold on him. He hoped he did not aggravate the man´s injuries by doing so, but he had to get him away from the water.

He tried to find the utmost shelter available, setting Aragorn down underneath the low branches of an aged pine tree.

His hands sought his friend´s face again, quickly stroking over his temples; he had to feel him in order to be sure he was safe with him. With trembling fingers, he felt for Aragorn´s pulse.

A small, butterfly movement against the tips told him the man was still with him. His skin felt icy though, and his face was so pale that it looked horribly lifeless, the lips tinted blue. Legolas looked around as though hoping for a miracle: they needed shelter and warmth. The nearest settlement was miles away however, and they would never get there in time.

Tears of frustration were streaming down the elf´s face once more as he saw the forlornness of their situation. He screwed his eyes shut, his hands still on Aragorn´s face and neck as though anxious to let go, and tried to come up with a solution.

He knew that there was a rockface which was housing a cave; he and Aragorn had camped there years ago. He had passed by it while searching for his friend.

He decided to try his luck and bring Aragorn there; it was their only hope.

-

A lone figure was kneeling next to Fingaer´s body, cautiously closing the dead man´s eyes with gloved fingers.

The newcomer was clad in the same garb as Fingaer, marking him as a Ranger of Ithilien; his eyes were shadowed by the hood of the cloak, but if anyone had approached him in that very moment, he would have been met with a bright, angry glare.

He lingered for a moment, debating the question whether he should bury the body. It would be right and prudent to do so, yet he had no time to spare if he did not want to risk losing the murderer´s tracks in these weather conditions.

"Forgive me," he murmured, addressing Fingaer. "Rest in peace; I will avenge your death."

With that, he got to his feet and swiftly descended the slope towards the riverbank.

-

Legolas would have loved nothing more than to lie down and sleep once they had finally reached their destination. His arms were burning with the strain of carrying Aragorn, and his legs felt like lead after struggling through the undergrowth for what he estimated to be two hours. Despite his exhaustion he clung to the human while nearing the cave. If only it was unoccupied by any living beings!

It took the Elf another ten minutes to climb up to the entrance of the cave, a large gaping hole in the stone wall. After a few meters, the spacious opening began to narrow down into a low tunnel. Legolas followed it into the cave that was lying behind it. To his great relief, it was empty. The air was cold and clammy, but at least the ground was relatively dry. He tried not to think of the massive amount of stone and rock which was surrounding him; Aragorn was all that mattered now.

He sank onto his knees, suddenly shaking all over; his arms nearly gave out, and it was all he could do to not drop his friend ungently onto the ground. The Ranger was breathing shallowly, and his skin was still icy cold.

Legolas needed to warm him; he had to try and build a fire, otherwise he might lose Aragorn even after bringing him out of the rain. Reluctantly, he got to his feet again and went back outside. As the entrance of the cave was so wide, the storm had carried some branches and twigs inside, which were only a little wet. Legolas was confident he would be able to light those. He quickly went outside and collected another armful of wood; it would hopefully dry next to the fire until it could be burned as well.

After he had done so three times, he brought it all inside.

He needed a few more attempts to set the meagre pile alight than usual, but after a while, the first flames were flickering through the darkness.

Legolas arranged the rest of the wood near the fire, then turned back to his friend.

He cautiously peeled the Ranger´s cloak and tunic off the lifeless body, then proceeded to undress him. Nearly all of Aragorn´s torso and legs were heavily bruised, and the skin over his ribs, his shoulder and his right hip was swollen and angrily red.

The Elf gingerly probed the Ranger for broken bones and found what felt like a dent in his collarbone; it seemed one of the halves had shifted a little. There was a swelling as well, showing that the bone was visibly disfigured. His hands were trembling; Aragorn gave a soft moan as Legolas was examining his ribcage, which only increased the tremors. He did not find anything else, and he would not have known what to do about it anyway. He dimly remembered that he had to do something about the collarbone, however, he could not leave it like that. If he did not set the bone right, it would grow back together in the wrong way and might cause great discomfort or even affect the arm´s ability to move.

Legolas eyed his friend unhappily before turning to open his pack. If he wanted to get Aragorn warm, he could not rely on the small fire alone. His own blanket was only little clammy but not wet; he pulled it out and used it to wrap Aragorn in, leaving his shoulder free.

When he set the bone, the man gave a strangled cry of pain, arching away from the firm hands. Legolas knew he could not let go, otherwise he would have had to start again. He could feel Aragorn trembling underneath his fingers and hurried to finish his task. After he had secured the arm so that his friend would not subconsciously aggravate the injury, he crouched down next to the Ranger. The man had not come to, yet his face was still contorted in pain, and he was breathing rapidly.

"Aragorn," Legolas soothed, stroking his friend´s ashen face, "it is over, you are going to be all right... I had to set the bone, otherwise it might have pained you even further..." He continued to talk to the unconscious human for a long time, all the while stroking him gently in order to calm him down. He only paused to kindle the fire further. A comforting warmth was spreading from the flames, and Legolas thought he could feel Aragorn´s skin getting warmer as well. The man´s hands and feet were still icy, so the Elf started massaging them to restore the blood circulation. While he was rubbing Aragorn´s left hand, he could feel a touch of cold metal against his own warm skin; his friend was wearing his ring again.

A few hours later though, Legolas had realized that the increasing warmth in Aragorn had another source than simply the life returning into the Ranger´s body: the man was running a fever, and it was rising worryingly quick. The Elf had done his best to keep the fire burning steadily, and the blanket had meanwhile dried. He made sure that it was thoroughly covering Aragorn, keeping him warm; he had furthermore boiled some water for tea, which he was currently trying to feed to the man. Aragorn, however, was fitful; he moaned and tried to move away from the Elf´s ministrations. It took the greater part of half an hour to empty the mug.

Legolas took a soft cloth and gently wiped the sheen of perspiration off Aragorn´s forehead; he wished that the man would wake up, so he could talk to him. He had no idea how to get him to safety in the state Aragorn was in, and he was not sure whether he had discovered all of his injuries.

Apart from that, they had little food; Legolas had only packed some deer jerky and lembas, which would not be sufficient to keep an ill man alive. He had been confident that they would be able to hunt or else provide themselves with food in a settlement.

For a moment, he allowed himself to sag in exhaustion and hopelessness, pressing his forearm against his brow. He felt uneasy in the cave, as though someone was applying pressure on his temples; he was certain he would have been able to ignore it, if it had not been for the knowledge that his friend was dying, and that he had no means of saving him.

He kindled the fire once more, unable to stop his hands from shaking. When he returned to the spot at Aragorn´s side he had been occupying for most of the night, the Ranger gave a small groan. Legolas leaned forward as the man´s eyelids opened a fraction. His gaze was glazed over, and the Elf was almost convinced that he would not recognize him, yet he laid his hand against Aragorn´s cheek: "Estel," he said quietly, for suddenly his voice was trembling. "Av-'osto. Im sí."

To his surprise, Aragorn´s face was lit by the ghost of a smile, ever so faint and only visible if one knew him.

"Guren linna gen cened." His voice was barely audible, but the words were clear to Legolas, whose heart rejoiced and clenched in pain at the same time.

He could not lose Aragorn, it would shatter him forever. Yet the man´s eyes fluttered close again as unconsciousness claimed him once more; he had no strength left, and the fever was visibly devouring him.

His elven friend´s shoulders hunched as he sought to be as close to him as possible. If there was nothing else he could do, he would at least let Aragorn feel that he was not alone.

A sound had Legolas straighten up instinctively, though he was immersed in praying.

It had come from the cave´s entrance. The Elf listened intently; nothing else was to be heard apart from the rain and the wind for a long time, yet his back prickled unpleasantly, as though trying to warn him. He sat motionlessly, hardly breathing; there it was again, followed by what seemed to be a small slide of stones.

Legolas got to his feet in an instant, taking his bow as he rose. Anger and hope welled up in him simultaneously; he did not need anyone to intrude, not now, for he wished Aragorn´s last hours to be peaceful. On the other hand, maybe his prayers had been heard and help was coming, as unlikely as it seemed.

He slowly advanced the tunnel; a person´s shallow breathing was resounding through it now, clearly audible to the Elf´s superiour hearing.

Legolas positioned himself, so that he would have whomever it was at arrowpoint the moment he emerged into the cave.

-

The Ithilien Ranger believed himself unnoticed. He had heard no commotion upon tiptoeing through the tunnel; the light which was visible at its end seemed to belong to a fire. Maybe Fingaer´s murderer was very probably sitting in front of it, warming himself and believing himself to be safe. Yet something was odd, something the Ranger could not quite grasp.

He had followed the person for the better part of six hours; the tracks had been hardly visible due to the weather, but he had evidently moved strangely slow. Furthermore, he had been down to the riverbank before he had come to this cave, and even though his tracks had been better readable afterwards, it did not make sense. Maybe he had tried to cross the river at that point, and had retreated to the cave after finding it impossible.

Still pondering this, the Ranger had reached the end of the tunnel. He lifted his bow which he had been holding in his hand with an arrow ready, and slowly readied himself. As he stepped out of the tunnel however, his bow taut and his arrow waiting for release, he was met by the sight of an Elf, equally aiming at him with his own bow.

The man could not stop himself from gasping in surprise. The fair being opposite of him, however, remained composed: "What is your business here?" he asked in Common. His voice was calm, yet his tone reminded the Ranger of a beast ready to strike.

"I would ask the same of you, had I not seen the evidence of your ´business´ already," he answered, not willing to let himself be intimidated so easily.

The Elf´s eyes narrowed: "What do you speak of?"

"I speak of murder." The Ranger´s eyes never left his face: "Gondor has no love for such crimes."

"Then why does Gondor commit such crimes?" Legolas retorted.

As the man gazed at him, something akin to curiosity mingled with the coldness in his stare: "Your words do not make much sense to me," he replied. "A fellow Ranger of mine lies dead, an arrow piercing his heart, fletched with the same yellow and green feathers as the one you are currently pointing at me."

"I regret the death of your companion," Legolas said, choosing his words carefully. "Yet it was not I who broke the peace. I merely sought to defend myself and my friend, who has fallen victim to the red-haired Ranger´s wrath. He ambushed him without provocation, and then tried to shoot me."

The man hesitated. There was no denying that Fingaer had been a short-tempered man. Yet he had had to have profound reason to attack the Elf in front of him and the man he could see lying by the fire in the background now, though the Elf was obviously trying to shield him from view.

His arms were beginning to tremble from the exertion of holding his bow at the ready. The Elf seemed to have no such troubles, but was eyeing him attentively.

"If Fingaer has attacked your friend, then he must have deserved it," the Ranger said.

The Elf´s eyes hardened.

**To Be Continued**

**

* * *

Sindarin translations:  
**

_Av-´osto, im sí_: Don´t be afraid , I am here

_Guren linna gen cened__: _ My heart sings to see you


End file.
